


hunger of the pine

by BasicBathsheba



Category: Carry On - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Am I Gay?, Awkward First Time, I shouldn't write smut if I'm uncomfortable tagging these things, M/M, Masturbation, Masturbation in Shower, Panic Attack, Porn with Feelings, Simon dealing with fucked up implications of his magic, Smut, a lot of feelings, but also sweet, its a lot of porn but also there's a lot of feelings, really awkward, seventh year watford, sex + magic, sexual awakening, sexually frustrated simon, simon discovers wanking, super clumsy, teen boys working out some frustrations, wet dreams, yes babe you deffo are
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 13:55:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,228
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14620047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BasicBathsheba/pseuds/BasicBathsheba
Summary: "I could have just taken care of it while he was in the shower. But I don’t really do that. It feels way too much like going off — the building, the overwhelming feeling. Like I’m going to explode, but not in a good way. In a terrifying, horrible, all consuming way that’s going to destroy me and everything around me. And sometimes when I get close, I do. Magic spills out.So I don't do that.Baz does though."Simon's uncontrollable magic has always kept him from really thinking about sex. But with Baz around, sometimes that's hard. And once he starts thinking about it, he can't stop.





	hunger of the pine

**Author's Note:**

> this is my first and only smut I've ever written. I'm so sorry for this cliched awkward mess. Thank you for reading.

Baz started this.

I heard him, one night in his sleep. He doesn’t make much noise usually. Sometimes he twitches when he’s having a nightmare, sometimes he breathes faster. Sometimes he says “no” very softly, like he’s asking, then louder, like he’s demanding, and that’s when I always stand up and drop something in order to wake him from whatever dream he’s trapped in.

But he’d never _moaned_ before.

There’s no other word for it. It was a straight up moan. It was sixth year, shortly after we’d gotten back from the summer, and I was having a hard time sleeping because it was so fucking hot in the room. I got up to open the window a bit, to let some breeze in, and I caught a glimpse of him, sprawled out on his bed face down, one arm hooked above his head, the other hugging the pillow he had his face shoved into.

It was actually kind of cute.

I like him when he sleeps. When his anger and derision turns off, and he‘s not screaming and cursing at me. Not trying to prove anything or hurt anyone. When he sleeps, his small breaths filling our room, so close I could touch him; that’s the only time I feel like we could get along.

But then he moaned. A full bodied kind of sound, and then he turned his face into his pillow, grasped it even tighter, and did it again.

I remember just standing there, completely frozen, because that’s a really particular kind of sound, definitely a sound that had never been made in our room before (at least not by me) and I didn’t want to dwell but it really sounded like—

And then his breath picked up, and I watched in absolute transfixed horror as the hand that had been clutching his pillow snaked down below his blankets. I could practically see his thighs clench around it through the blanket, (he does football, his thighs are like trees during the season) and the very clear movement of his hand moving up and down and then he made that noise again and—

I dove back into my bed right as his breath hitched and he let loose another (another!) louder moan and mumbled “oh _fuck_ ” and then went still.

I scrunched my eyes shut as he sputtered awake and sat up in his bed. I could hear the frantic sound of him kicking off his sheets, and then his quiet intake of breath and him whispering “oh, Crowley.” The room was so silent you could hear a pin drop, and I was holding my breath, which was stupid; he’d know I was awake. So I let out my breath and did this stupid lip smacking sound and turned over a bit so my back was to him.

Which was probably for the best, because I had a giant erection.

It got worse as I Iistened to him spell his sheets clean, and by the time I heard him turn on the shower in our bathroom I was practically vibrating.

I could have just taken care of it while he was in the shower. But I don’t really do that. It feels way too much like going off — the building, the overwhelming feeling. Like I’m going to explode, but not in a good way. In a terrifying, horrible, all consuming way that’s going to destroy me and everything around me. And sometimes when I get close, I do. Magic spills out.

Once I had a dream during the summer, and when I woke up every pillow in the room had exploded. Another time I was at Watford and Baz was gone so I thought I would try, but the air filled with thick, heavy smoke before anything could happen, and I got too nervous. I could feel the heat from non-existent flames licking up the side of the bed, moments from an inferno, and I stopped, threw open the windows and sat on the floor of a cold shower.

So yeah. I don’t really do that.

Baz does though. I know that first hand, because of the end of sixth year.

He does this thing sometimes where he soundproofs the bathroom when he’s in it. I always assumed he was just muffling the sound of him taking a shit, which is so classically Baz. One day at the end of the year I got back to the room and I had to piss so badly, but the door was locked. I thought about going to a nearby building, but I was at that stage of needing to pee where walking was almost impossible. If it weren’t midday, I would have just pissed into the moat.

I stood there, clenching my thighs, doing the weird pee dance where you hop back and forth, waiting for Baz to get out. I banged on the door a few times, but nothing. I seriously started worrying I was going to piss myself.

“Open the door open the door open the door,” I started chanting, like I could will it into happening. Sometimes I forget I can actually do shit like that though.

And I did.

The door swung open and suddenly Baz’s soundproofing spell disappeared with a pop, and the room filled with the sound of running water and—

That _moan._

I’d heard that before. I knew immediately what it was, I shouldn’t have had to look to double check, but yet my eyes couldn’t keep from immediately going to the corner of the bathroom, where our stupid, curtainless shower is. Where Baz was. Where Baz was currently standing, his back to me, full ass on display, one hand on the wall, his forehead pressed to the tile next to it, his other hand moving in front of him—

Suddenly pissing myself wasn’t going to be a problem, because I was rock hard.

I backed away quickly, praying he wouldn’t notice, and I should have just made a banging noise and pretended I had just opened the door, and that way we could pretend that the worst I saw was his full, perfect ass, his pale back, his hair slicked back and dripping. Pretend that I didn’t see his hand moving in long, slow strokes, didn’t hear his pants or see his ass clench as some sensation or feeling washed through him. I should have done anything except what I did do, which was watch him for far, far longer than necessary before turning and fleeing.

I hated him for that. I hated him for how easy things were for him, for how comfortable he was in his magic and life and sexuality. He was horny? He could just soundproof the bathroom and wank it out in the shower, without having to worry about turning the shower head into a waterfall or blowing the glass out of the windows or something. He could just get off on a Wednesday afternoon like a normal bloke. He‘s a fucking monster, something undead, and yet he‘s able to be more alive and normal than I can ever be.

 

***

 

It’s been harder to ignore since we started seventh year. We never discussed why he once turned to see the bathroom door wide open, but every time I hear him soundproof the bathroom, I wonder. On days that he uses the soundproofing spell, he’s in there a hell of a lot longer than his usual thirty fucking minute shower. There’s no real pattern to it—sometimes he’ll go weeks without soundproofing, and then sometimes he’ll be stressed as hell and biting my head off and he’ll use the spell every day for a week.  

I try not to think about it, but sometimes in the shower I’ll be hit with the memory of him standing, legs spread, hand against the wall, and that jealousy and the reminder of how easy it is for him suddenly becomes tactile.

There haven’t been repeats of me catching him, but it doesn’t stop me from constantly looking for signs. If he shifts or makes a sound in his sleep, I‘m on high alert. It’s gotten so bad that sometimes when he starts the shower, even without the soundproofing spell, I immediately get a boner.

I hate it. I hate him, because sex is no longer sex to me. It’s not an act or a feeling or an urge or a thing I think about at night that seems great but still distant and not really connected to me. Somehow it’s become an obsession and there’s this gaping canyon of hunger I never knew I had, and Baz is standing in the middle of it just screaming at me. He and sex are just linked in my head now.

There’s a paranoid part of my brain that wonders if he’s doing it on purpose. If he found out that I don’t work properly, don’t have an outlet, and he’s been trying a long con to get me to literally explode. But how could he? He didn’t know I saw him either time. And there’s no way he’d know about the wanking thing. I haven’t told anyone, ever. And I haven’t even tried since fourth year. That’s an extremely long con.

There’s another part of me that wonders if maybe it would be different. I’m older now. I’m weeks from being 18. I’ve got more control on my hormones than I used to.

Maybe…

When Baz starts the shower after practise, I decide to say fuck it. My cock twitches the second the water comes on, and I’m so tired of this, so exhausted of this intense, unfulfilled want, that I unzip my flies without thinking and shove my hand in.

Fuck. I should have waited, to do this in the shower, like Baz. How does he do this? Does he just jump right in? Does he just wrap his hand around himself, like I’m doing, and just start? Probably not. He’s probably really fucking good at it, probably has some process.

My hand picks up speed, tugging faster, longer, and a low moan escapes me. I put my hand over my mouth in a desperate attempt to keep the sound in, and keep going. It’s coarse and quick and rough and there’s nothing slow or deliberate about it like Baz. It’s all or nothing, full speed.

I feel like I’m about to go off. I feel overwhelmed, like every part of my body is itching and tensing and getting ready to release a magical explosion, and I should pull back, I should stop, but I let out another moan and it sounds so much like the sound Baz made and—

I come, hot and fast into my hand with a loud grunt and heavy exhale. My eyes fly open to search the room, to see if I’ve broken anything, if anything is on fire, but everything is fine. The shower is still going. Nothing is destroyed. I did it. I fucking did it.

I don’t stop.

After years of being terrified and repressed, it’s like I’m catching up for lost time. Or it’s like I opened the door to this new world of feeling and need and hunger and I can’t stop. I’m always so _hungry._ I think about it all the time. When I wake up in the morning. When I’m sitting in class. When I’m getting through meals. It’s like my hormones and the part of my brain that is supposed to be sex-crazed was turned off for 17 years and now it’s turned on and gone into overdrive.

Baz’s shower time has now become my wank time. It’s the only time I’m alone in the room long enough, and he takes forever anyway. I do it in the shower sometimes, too, but I worry that any noises or grunts will be amplified by the tile, and I don’t know the soundproofing spell. I don’t sound like him when I moan. It’s not a pretty sound.

So now every time Baz says, “I’m going to shower,” I get an erection, which is the world’s biggest fucking joke.

I’m sitting on my bed, a book in my lap, just waiting. He just got back from football, I know he’s going to shower any moment, and the suspense is killing me. Today was awful. I’m exhausted. I just want to tug one out so I can go to bed, because apparently that’s now part of my daily routine. He’s taking forever, though, and finally I snap when he’s bent down to get something from the bottom of his wardrobe.

Sometimes when he bends over all I can think of is his ass on display.

“Aren’t you showering?” I growl. My dick literally twitches when I say it. He turns and raises an eyebrow, and there’s a second of panic where I wonder if he knows.

“Eventually, yes,” he responds coolly, and I want to strangle him. I growl again and collapse back onto my bed in a dramatic, stretched out heap, a long, protracted sigh pulled out of me.

Baz turns to stare at me as I do so, his eyes locked on me for a long pause before he stands straight up, his body rigid, his back to me, and walks directly into the bathroom. There’s a moment before I hear the small _pop_ of the soundproofing spell, and my dick gets even harder. This is the first time he’s used the spell since I started using his shower time as wank time. Does that mean he’s going to do it too? There’s a thrill that runs through me at the idea.

I kick off my trousers, tug my shirt over my head quickly and pull on my pyjama bottoms (there’s only so many times I can come on my school trousers before it becomes a problem). I grab a sock for the clean up, then collapse back into my bed, take myself in hand, and start.

I can’t stop thinking about Baz.

That’s not unusual. I think about him in the shower pretty regularly during this, or of him that night he had the dream, his body grinding into his bed. I’ve tried to think about other things, like some faceless girl with huge breasts, but every time my mind just goes back to Baz. Somewhere, in the back of my head, I realise that jerking off every day to the image of my naked roommate probably means I’m not 100 per cent straight, but I don’t care, because just thinking of his long, cool hands wrapped around his dick— I turn and bury my face in my pillow and groan a little. I can’t stop imaging in him in the shower, right now, so close by to me, doing this. That has to be why he soundproofed it. There’s a door between us, but we’re doing the same thing. He’s in there, legs spread, head arched back, his breath picking up, water rolling down his shoulders—

I open my eyes to find my sock, because I’m close, and I’ll need it soon, but instead my focus locks on to a pair of wide, gray eyes in the doorway of the bathroom.

His hair is dripping water onto his T-shirt and flannel pjyama bottoms, but he seems frozen. My hand is still at my waist, holding my cock, which is twitching and on full display. I’m frozen too.

I break first, grabbing my blanket and shoving it on top of my lap as I struggle to sit up.

“Sorry, fuck, sorry,” I babble, pulling at the blanket as I try to tuck myself back into my pants. I’m still hard, and it’s an awful feeling. “Sorry, you usually take longer.”

I regret it the second I say it. Why did I say it? Baz’s eyebrows shoot up so high on his forehead they might fly off.

“Do you wank while I’m showering?” he asks, his normally cold tone high and incredulous. Crowley, he’s going to kill me. I’m bright red, and I want to die. Baz grabs his towel off the back of his chair and pulls it through his hair. He’s calm. Eerily calm. He’s put on the mask. Whatever he’s feeling, he’s trying to hide it. “Great snakes, Snow, just do it in the shower like everyone else, instead of out here on display.”

That’s not the response I was expecting. I thought he was going to start yelling and cursing. Some light mocking? That’s almost gentle, for Baz.

“You’re not going to kill me?” I squeak out. He looks at me sideways like I’m an idiot.

“For wanking? No?” He sets the towel down and goes back to his desk, impossibly casual. The movements are a bit forced, a bit too rigid. Maybe he’s not as chill about this as I thought. “Crowley, it’s probably the only normal thing about you. There’s just no need to put on a show about it.”

I watch him gather up his jumper and boots, and he starts getting dressed to go out. Why is he going out? He never goes to the Catacombs after he’s showered.

“I don’t know the soundproofing spell,” I say quietly. He tenses. Maybe I shouldn’t have let on that I know.

“What soundproofing spell?” he snaps, and I resist the urge to roll my eyes.

“Come off it,” I growl. “I know. I accidentally opened the door on you once, so I guess we’re even now.”

“You what?” he says, turning on me. He looks murderous.

“I had to pee and didn’t know you were in the shower, and my magic accidentally opened the door,” I explain. “It’s fine, like I said, we’re even now.”

“Hardly,” he snaps, “as you used magic to pick a lock and invade my privacy. You, however, were thrashing about in our shared bedroom, moaning so loudly I heard you through my spell. I came out because I thought you were finally dying.”

Shit, was I really that loud? Fuck. Fuck.

“I’m sorry,” I say again, because I am. “It’s just still sort of new and I didn’t realise, I—“ What is there to say? “Won’t happen again.”

Baz is eyeing me suspiciously. He looks like he wants to be as far from me as possible, like this is physically painful for him. It’s almost physically painful for me.

“I’m going to regret this, but what do you mean ‘sort of new’?”

I bring my hand up to the back of my neck.

“Uh,” I say. “I didn’t used to be able to do it. Because of magic stuff.”

“Your magic kept you from orgasming?”

I nod. I hate how sharp and clinical that word sounds. This is the worst conversation I’ve ever had.

“Mostly it just destroyed stuff. So I...didn’t. Not worth it.”

Baz looks at me like he’s actually pitying me. The twat.

“What changed?”

I shrug.

“I’m older. After I— saw you, I guess — it seems so fucking easy for you, and I just got pissed and was like ‘I should be able to do that’ and then it just became a thing, but yeah, I can, uh, manage it now.”

Baz looks like I’ve punched him.

“You mean to say that you saw me masturbating...and then started doing so... yourself,” he says slowly. Punctuating every other word with a pause, drawing them out. Like he can’t believe it. I guess it is pretty hard to believe. Sometimes I don’t even believe it.

“Well, fuck, when you say it like that, it sounds gay and really creepy. Sorry, that must make you massively uncomfortable,” I stutter.

“It doesn’t,” he says quietly.

“Oh,” I say. “Well, uh, good. I’ll be sure to uh, stop doing it while you’re around. I should probably, uh, cut back anyway.”

Baz just peers at me through the darkening room, unblinking. He looks a bit like a cat sometimes. Then he stands and leaves. I think about finishing up now that I’m alone, but I don’t. It feels excessively wrong to jerk off to someone after they’ve caught you doing so. I just cut the light and go to sleep.

 

***

 

I have my first wet dream since I was thirteen.

I’m in the shower. I’m not even wanking, just washing my hair, letting the water run over me. I do that sometimes—I draw it out, let myself get harder and harder throughout the shower like I’m teasing myself, until I physically can’t hold back any longer. That’s what I’m doing in my dream, and I’m so fucking hard that my cock is throbbing, when suddenly I feel someone step into the shower behind me and place two solid hands on my hips. I know who it is without looking. I want these hands, I want this feeling. I tilt my head for the light kiss I know is about to be placed on my neck, and I want so badly, but I also feel safe. Warm. Held. Wanted.

That’s a new thing I didn’t realise I wanted. To be wanted.

I lean back into the embrace, feel the arms wrap around me, feel the twitch of an erection on my ass, and then suddenly Baz’s hands are on my dick, stroking and tugging and being far more gentle than I ever have been. One hand pulls and the other dances across my calves before cupping my balls.

“It’s normal, Simon,” he whispers into my neck, before placing a kiss on my shoulder. I can’t hold back a groan at that, and he kisses me again, and again, and then his lips trail down my back and over my spine and suddenly he’s on his knees, kissing down my body until he uses his strong hands to spin me, so my back is against the wet tile, so I’m facing him.

He looks up at me through the spray of the shower, his gray eyes hooded, his dark hair slicked back and wet, plastered to his neck, and he smiles at me before he takes my entire dick in his mouth.

I can’t contain the groan that comes out of me, and I reach down to bunch his hair in my hand as he licks at my shaft, his tongue swirling around my slit.

“Simon,” he says, and I groan again. He can’t stop. This is too good, this is too perfect. I like him here, this is where he’s supposed to be.

“Simon,” he says again, and I pant, I’m going to come right into his mouth and-

“Simon!”

I wake up with a jolt and feel myself plummeting, falling, and I crash into my bed with a sickening thud that knocks the wind from me. Baz is standing next to my bed, his eyes wide.

“What-“ I start, but Baz is crackling with anger. Anger? No, fear. Anxiety. Something.

“You were levitating,” he says. “I woke up because I heard you thrashing and you were crying and literally levitating above your bed. Normally I don’t wake you from your nightmares but you’ve never done that before, and I didn’t know what to do. Are you alright? Are you hurt?”

Baz is babbling. Baz Pitch is babbling.

I sit up with a groan and shake my head.

“Wasn’t a nightmare,” I say, pushing back my sweat soaked blankets and swinging my feet around to the floor. My pinky toe touches one of his bare feet, but he doesn’t back away.

“You were breathing heavy and practically sobbing,” he snaps. Crowley, I can’t look at him. All I can see is him blinking up at me from his knees. “What the fuck goes on in your brain that you can fucking levitate in your sleep? Have you ever done a normal thing in your life?” he spits.

He seems angry. Knocked off beat. He runs a hand through his hair and I can tell he’s agitated, that this is just the beginning, that he’s about to settle into a rant, and all I want to do is cut him off. This is the second time today he’s fucking interrupted.

And it’s irrational, I know, but I’m angry at him for pulling me out of the dream, where it was just him and me, being together. I hate him for pulling me away from that fictional, dreamt up version of my life where I’m wanted. Where he wants me.

“It was a sex dream!” I shout. “It was a fucking sex dream, okay? So just leave me alone! I can’t do anything or go anywhere or take care of any of this shit without you interrupting! Not even in my fucking dreams!”

Baz takes a step back. I’m breathing heavy, from anger and frustration, and if tonight turns into a fight I’d almost welcome it. I’d kill to get him back under my hands.

“You said my name. You said my name multiple times, I thought you were having a nightmare about...me.”

I said his name? Fuck.

I’m still breathing hard and I round on him, I want to shove him and I would if the Anathema wouldn’t kick me out.

“Yeah, you were there. Sorry, okay? Sorry that I’m horny! Sorry that inconveniences you!”

“Are you saying you had a sex dream about me?” he says, quietly. Fuck. He wasn’t meant to know. He was never meant to know. But sometimes when I find my words I find all of them, and it’s like my magic and everything comes out, even things that I want to keep in. But it’s out there now. So I jut my chin out, a challenge.

“Yeah, alright? I did. You’re fucking linked with sex in my head and I’m fucking sorry. I know that’s super gay and whatever but you know what? I can’t help it. You said it yourself, it’s normal, so just do your fucking worst and hit me or something, because I’ve got no fucking control over this, and I’m about ready to fucking murder—”

He lunges at me before I’m able to call up my sword, and all I can do is pull my arms up to block whatever blow is coming. But he doesn’t hit me. Instead he grabs me by the back of my neck and kisses me.

It’s only a second, and then he’s pulling away, pushing away from me, shaking his head, his eyes wide, saying, “What am I—“ but before he can finish his sentence I grab him and I pull him back. I want. I want so badly.

His lips are so much colder than I expected, so much colder than they were in my dream, and they feel incredible on my burning skin. Until now I didn’t know that there was an expectation of what he’d taste and feel like, that there was an assumption already made in my mind that this would happen, eventually, and I’d finally get an answer.

He doesn’t know what he’s doing—I don’t think he’s done this before—so I take over, bobbing my chin a bit, tilting my head, capturing his bottom lip. He fights back, he doesn’t want to give up the lead, but I keep pushing and he keeps pressing and then suddenly he’s laughing against my lips. It’s an incredulous, delirious laugh, more of a giggle. Why hasn’t he laughed like this before? He should always laugh like this.

My hands are clenched in his shirt, trying to drag him as close as I can, but I feel him slow and wince.

“Are you okay?” I whisper. My voice sounds too loud and too real. He nods, and I go to kiss him again, but I see the flinch before we even make contact, follow the direction of his eyes. I pause for a moment, remove my hand from its iron grip around his waist, and pull my cross off. It goes flying across the room and I can feel him relax and breathe. His hand sneaks back toward my hip, around my waist, stopping just above my ass, and all I can think of is my dream, his hands around me, stroking me, and I’m immediately hard.

I know he can feel it because he pulls me closer, pressing our hips together, and my erection presses against his thigh and I feel him gasp a little into my mouth. I should step back, should give him space to breathe or regret or try to kill me, but I don’t want to. I wrap his black hair around one hand and I bite his lower lip and growl into his mouth and walk him backwards, away from the beds, until he’s pressed against the wall.

“Simon, I,” he starts, and I shake my head.

“What are you—“ Why is he talking? Doesn’t he understand that sometimes it’s better to not speak? To not use words?

“Do you want me to stop?” I whisper as I kiss at his jaw. He shakes his head. “Then shut up.”

This loosens something in him, and it’s like he suddenly wakes up and his hands come up to grip my arms and he turns me, pushes me back into the rough stone wall. He’s got me pinned, and the stones are scratching my back as he starts kissing at my neck. I feel him lick the spot under my ear and I shiver. Licking? I would never have thought of licking. Fuck this is good. I groan and bury my face in his neck and try to lick back. I feel like a dog.

“Tell me about the dream,” he says, panting, as he rocks his hips into mine. He’s hard too. I can feel it. But I shake my head and instead cup his ass with one hand and scratch at his back with the other. He presses into me again.

“Tell me,” he commands, and then he sucks lightly on my neck.

I should stop him. He’s a vampire. But he won’t hurt me. He wants me, he wants me and I know it. But I don’t think he wants me that way. I don’t think he would. Maybe I shouldn’t have taken off the cross.

“Shower,” I gasp out. “I was in the shower and you came in with me.”

Another rock. “And then?” he asks. But then he kisses my lips again, which makes it hard to answer. It’s like he’s torn between trying to grind me and kiss me, like he can’t decide which he wants more, and he doesn’t seem to be able to do both at once.

“You touched me,” I whisper, nuzzling my face into his shoulder. We’re pressed against each other, our bodies tangled, but this feels like the most intimate thing I’ve done yet; pressing my face into the crook of his neck. Not kissing. Just breathing him in. He smells like bergamot and sweat and something tangy, something sweet, something that fills my head and senses and I love it. “Then you kissed down my back and got on your knees and—“

I stop. I can’t breathe. Nothing is real, because Baz has just looped his cold, long fingers under the band of my pants.

“Can I?” he asks, and I nod, dumbfounded. Baz has never asked permission in his life. But when I nod, he smiles against my chin and pulls them down. My cock springs free as my clothes pool around my ankles and I’m left standing completely naked, and Baz actually moans when he looks down. I know that moan.

“Will you—“ I gasp, pointing down, because apparently this is real and happening. But he shakes his head and kisses at my collarbone.

“No, I’m sorry, I would, but my teeth, and—“ he says, stumbling over words. He sounds so hesitant, so insecure, and I don’t want him to feel that way, so I press my hips back into his again.

“No, fangs, I got it,” I pant, kissing him. He nods and licks at my lower lip. He did it. He finally admitted he’s a vampire. And I don’t fucking care.

“Can I do it then?” I ask, pulling at his pyjama waistband. Somehow this has shifted from me wanting to get off to me wanting to get him off. Suddenly I feel like I can’t enjoy myself if he’s not. He nods against my neck and I pull his clothes down quickly, then dispense with his shirt, and pull back momentarily to drink him in. Fuck, he’s just as good from the front. Better even. I’d only ever seen his ass before, but fuck.

He’s hung.

I try to imitate what dream Baz did and kiss down his body as I get to my knees. But dream Baz was a lot more graceful than I am right now, and I kind of thud to the floor, leaving a trail of sloppy, forceful kisses against his ribs. I try to ignore the pounding in my knees as Baz laughs, surprised, and I smile up at him, a dumb, lopsided grin that I know is showing off my weirdly spaced teeth. I probably look mental, but he smiles back—a small, hesitant thing. I want him to smile more. I kiss his stomach and I feel him flinch, lightly, and then I go lower. His hair isn’t as silky down here. It’s thick, so thick, and I’ve honestly never thought about another boy’s pubic hair but I kiss it anyway. It’s softer than I would have thought.

I’ve no fucking idea what I’m doing. I’m going on pure instinct and imagination, and I know that my panting kisses aren’t nearly as hot or graceful or seductive as they seem in my head. I know that I’m staring at him awkwardly, that this is clumsy and off beat, but he doesn’t seem to care. He’s as wrapped up in this as I am. I want. And I can tell he does too.

He gasps when I put my hands on either side of his thighs and tentatively lick at his cock. It twitches in response. I lick down the shaft like he did in my dream, then over the slit, and I feel his hands clench in my hair, and his hips buck forward.

I think about drawing this out, doing it again, just licking and breathing and trying to get him back for every shitty thing he’s ever done, but I’m too eager. I want this as much as he does, so I carefully take him into my mouth, try to purse my lips around him and start to suck.

Maybe I am gay.

I don’t think I’m doing a good job. I think I’m sloppy and off time and generally a mess, but he seems to like it. He groans and bucks and he thrusts himself deeper into my mouth and I have to pull back before I gag, but he doesn’t notice, so I keep going.

He rocks so much that it’s difficult to keep a rhythm, and he keeps pushing himself too deep, and I’m constantly on the verge of choking, but he’s falling apart. His eyes are closed, his hand is in my hair, and he looks transcendent. He’s smiling and loose and free and he’s beautiful like this. Something about the light in the room has taken this too tall, too thin, too pale boy and turned him to marble. A work of art.

Suddenly he grabs me by my shoulders and pulls me up, back up to his mouth, and he crashes into me, kissing me, not caring that my lips were on his cock a second ago and that I still have precome on my tongue, and then he’s pushing me back, back toward the bed.

“How far do you want to go?” he pants, and I shrug, nipping at his shoulder.

“As far as you want. I’ll take anything, I want everything,” I whisper, not even knowing the truth until it falls out of my mouth.

He laughs again, a high, disbelieving laugh, and tries to shove me onto the bed. I land awkwardly, half on, half off, and scoot myself back up just before he lands on top of me, straddling me, our dicks touching. He clenches his thighs together, pressing against me, and I grunt, which earns another small laugh. It’s a mocking laugh, he’s absolutely laughing at me, but I don’t think it’s malicious.

He looks so...free. So unrestrained, and happy, and human. This is the boy I’ve spent so long hating? This is my enemy? He pulls my face to his and kisses me gently, his hands skating down my chest. He doesn’t feel like my enemy.

He feels like everything.

He grinds against me, slowly, and I grunt again. Fuck, this feels so good.

“Are we going to?” I start. “Are you going to— should I turn over or—“ but he shakes his head and laughs, and I feel the motion travel through me.

“Crowley, no, not tonight,” he says, kissing my shoulder, and my blood screams at the implied promise of more in his words. “But I want to get you off, and I want to look at you while you do. Just...move.”

I do.

We set an awkward rhythm, both trying to fight for the beat, our hips rolling against each other. His hands are braced against the pillow on either side of my head, and my hands are holding his ass as he rocks against me and he groans and I groan because this feels so fucking good. Is this sex? I didn’t even know you could do this. Is this as good for him? Does this mean I’m losing my virginity? I’m not inside him though. But it feels like this is something huge, something momentous, like I’ve taken the universe by the shoulders and—

I just shut off my brain and keep rocking against him.

I’m kind of flailing about a bit, one of my legs coming up to try to hook around him, and I feel like I’m climbing him, but he doesn’t mind I don’t think because he’s now got my arms trapped in a death grip, and he looks like he’s falling apart. There’s sweat everywhere and stale breath and I can hear our stomachs slapping together and making this weird suction noise that keeps making him laugh. Every time he laughs I go faster, pushing my hips into him so that the friction on him is greater. He grunts and I kiss at his neck.

“Come on, Baz, don’t let me win,” I whisper.

“I’m going to—” he says suddenly, and he doesn’t manage to finish his sentence before he shudders and I feel warmth pooling between our stomachs. I expected some kind of wild moan or cry of delight, but he’s silent. He’s completely silent, biting his lip, looking down at me.

I should stop. I should pull back and stop grinding into him and let him get cleaned up, but I can’t. I don’t want to let him go.

Either I’m transparent, or he can read my mind, or he doesn’t want me to let him go either.

He flips us so quickly I almost don’t notice until I’m above him, one leg still trapped awkwardly under his knee, and he reaches over for his wand and whispers something.

“Put yourself between my thighs and keep going,” he instructs. And I do. He’s somehow magically lubed me or himself or something (because of course he’d know that fucking spell) and I feel myself slide between his thighs and between his cheeks and this is so fucking weird but this is so much better than grinding, even if it is a weird position to maintain.

“Keep going,” he whispers, his arms around my neck, his face pressed into my cheek. “Come on you absolute nightmare, you gorgeous, incredible thing, keep going.”

I keep rocking, I keep going, but it’s not the frenzied push we used to get him off. It’s slow, gentler, because these drawn out movements where our lips come together and I feel him move below me somehow are far more pleasurable than wild, unrestrained friction.

He grasps at my back like he’s still going, like he didn’t just come, and he peppers slow, desperate kisses along my shoulders and neck and jaw and cheeks and lips. And then he pulls back and wraps his arms around my waist and we just stare at each other as I push against him, again and again.

I know that there’s such a thing as just fucking. Blind emotionless animalistic sex. I’d thought that this is what that was. I’d thought that this was just a natural conclusion to our hatred. That seven years of fighting was just boiling over to a form of physicality that the Anathema wouldn’t punish us for. I thought that’s what we were doing: fucking.

But it’s not. I don’t think this is sex. I think this is making love. Just thinking that makes me want to cringe. But what else do you call it? It’s turned soft and gentle and with every rock against him he whispers in my ear and kisses at my cheek and smooths down my hair and he’s so impossibly careful, so precious with me. There’s something in his eyes—not just the glistening reflection of what I think are tears—but something like pure, awed, disbelief. Like what I am and what I’m doing is too much for him to even contemplate, like he’s so incredibly—

He’s happy. He looks happy.

This doesn't happen. The way I'm feeling right now shouldn't be happening. It's not the feeling you get from sex. It's not something that can just show up in the middle of whatever the fuck we're doing right now. What even are we doing? How did we get here? Why are we doing this? 

I push against him again and I press kisses to his shoulders and his hands come up and around my neck. He could snap it. He could drain me. But he won’t. There’s no reason to think that he won’t but I’ve decided to put my safety and trust in his hands for some reason, and I’m sticking by it.

Because this is so much. It’s too much, the way he’s looking at me and the way he’s been laughing and the feeling that’s spreading across me. I’m not about to go over. I’m about to go off. It’s building and traveling and my breath gets faster and I don’t know why this is happening. Why now? I’ve been wanking for a month with no problems, no magic. Why is it suddenly happening now? What if I can’t control it when I go off? What if I hurt Baz?

I stop moving and from beneath me he can tell that something is happening, something not good, and he pulls away and puts his hands on my face, cupping my chin and brushing a damp curl back from my forehead.

“Simon?” he asks, but my head feels numb and my fingers are tingling and I can barely speak.

“Simon?” he repeats, and his eyes go wide and he shifts, pulling himself out from beneath me and sitting up, not letting go of me. “Hey, breathe. It’s okay. Are you going off?”

I nod, unable to say anything. He pulls me into his lap and his arms fall from my face and he’s clutching me to him, telling me to match my breath to his, it’s okay love, I’m safe, but it’s too late, I’m spilling over, I’m blinking out, I’m about to stop existing—

“Take it,” I whisper as my body shakes and I come apart, just as I clench his back and _push_  into him.

He goes ramrod straight, his head falls back, and he says something that I can’t hear because I’ve gone limp. All energy has drained from me and left me and for the first time in my life I feel cold. But I don’t feel hungry.

Baz falls back onto the bed, his arms still tight around me, pulling me down with him.

It’s silent for a moment. All I hear is my breathing, still heavy. I can’t process what just happened. I didn’t orgasm. I didn’t come. But I’m spent. I’m depleted. I’m calm.

Baz isn’t though. He’s laughing hysterically, manically, his body shaking beneath me.

“Simon, look,” he whispers, and I pull myself off of him and turn over heavily to fall on my back and look up. We’re not in our dorm anymore.

Or rather, we are, but it’s changed. The ceiling and walls are gone, and we’re surrounded by a swirling mass of stars and constellations and galaxies, and a nearby cluster of stars are pulsating in time with my shaking breaths. Baz reaches a hand out as if to grab them, but they’re not actually close enough to touch.

“It’s all the constellations you have on your body,” he breathes. I glance sideways at him and I expect him to blush or roll his eyes, but instead he just turns to me and stares. He’s so open. He’s so unguarded. So willing to share. I can see everything he’s feeling played out on his face—tiredness, surprise, delight, desperation, warmth, affection. Now that I’ve seen this, seen the real Baz, I know I can never go back to living with the mask.

But what do I say? Is it okay that I shoved my magic into you? What did you even just do? Let’s be boyfriends? Let’s forget everything because of one fantastic shag? Does that count as losing your virginity? Are you even gay?

I go with the last one. It seems easiest.

“Are you gay?” I ask quietly. But I reach out and take his hand when I say it.

“Completely. You?”

I trace the lines of his knuckles and shrug through the darkness. The stars are starting to retreat as my heartbeat slows.

“I’m going to guess a bit, yeah.”

That makes him laugh. I want to make him laugh again. Somehow this has become the most important thing to me. Somehow in the timespan of tonight, in the darkness of our room, Baz shifted from some lurking, undead threat to the glowing center of my universe.

It’s terrifying. He’s still terrifying. But he wanted me. He wants me; I can tell from the way he’s still here, still calm, still pulling his thumb over my knuckles. I’m wanted.

He looked at me like I’m not a force of destruction, a time bomb. A cracked instrument of chaos and death and obliteration. He held me through a nuclear explosion, he took the blow from me. He protected me, like I’m something worth protecting. He looked at me like I’m a boy. Just a boy.

“Are you okay?”

I nod. I know he can see it.

“What…” he pauses, and for the first time since this started, he sounds unsure. “What did you do?”

“I don’t know.” My voice is a whisper. “I thought I was going to go off. It was too much, I was feeling too much, and I had excess and I just…gave it to you.” My pulse is starting to pick up again. “Are you okay? Did it hurt?”

Baz lets out a puff of air. I roll over on my side, so I’m facing him. The effort seems like too much, but I need to look at him. I need to keep touching him, even though he’s cold and the night air is pricking at my sweaty skin.

“Baz,” I say again. Insistently. “Did it hurt?” I don’t want it to have hurt him.

I don’t want to hurt him.

This is important. Suddenly it’s the most important thing, and he has to know. I have to tell him, because if I don’t, all of this might disappear. He might start thinking again, and regretting, and he’ll pull back and remind himself — and probably me — of all the reasons this has never happened, why it shouldn’t have happened. He’ll pretend, and he’ll forget, and he won’t want me.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” I whisper. There’s more to it. More unsaid. I can tell he knows.

His arms go around me and he tugs me back into him, cradling me, pulling my face back into the crook of his neck and runs his hands through my sweaty hair. I’m disgusting. He’s disgusting. Everything is moist and sticky and smells too sharp.

“It felt amazing. It felt better than any orgasm I’ve ever had,” he says, breathing out through a laugh. “Crowley, Simon. You’re amazing.”

I feel giddy. Worn out, punch drunk. _Baz drunk_.

“I like you when you call me Simon,” I say. I nuzzle my face against his neck, and he holds me tighter.

“Simon,” he says. And I smile.

We grow quiet. I don’t know what to say, and I guess he doesn’t either, but it’s good. We’re not speaking. We’re not thinking. I like it. At some point Baz rolls over to his side and I follow, keeping my arm around his waist and curling into the hollow of his back, his hair hitting my nose. He smells so good. So, so good.

I want this. All of it.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [torture of the pine](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15263289) by [Missy3000](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Missy3000/pseuds/Missy3000)




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